Oedipus
by desolate butterfly
Summary: Draco Malfoy looks just like his father.


**Title:** Oedipus  
**Author name:** Desolate Butterfly  
**Category:** Angst/Horror  
**Sub Category:** Drama  
**Rating:** M  
**Spoilers:** SS/PS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OoTP  
**Summary:** Draco looks just like his father.  
**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** A bit creepy…okay, a lot creepy. Stay away from this if incest squicks you out.

* * *

Oedipus

He fits his hand into one white glove, flexing the fingers experimentally. It is a perfect fit, just like he knew it would be.

The cape is a little long; however, a few well placed tailoring charms fix that. When he turns sharply the cape billows outwards; dramatic, elegant, perfect.

The slight heel to the boots make his stride seem more graceful, more sensual, and it pleases him to recognize the smooth and practiced movements in the mirror. He'd watched so carefully, mimicked every gesture and stance until it was right.

He smiles tightly at his reflection, letting the faint signs of disdain show in the lines around the mouth, the curl of the lip. He recalls the potrait that takes up the entire wall of the study and tries to put a bit more ice into his gaze, a bit more lift to his chin.

He remembers the first time someone had said it.

He was eleven and being fitted for Hogwarts robes for the first time. The day had been long and boring and not nearly enough time had been spent in the Quidditch shop, but he had still felt a bit of excitement as the smooth black fabric with its golden crest slid over his shoulders. His mother had watched him strut proudly in front of the mirror, her eyes showing a spark of interest, a kind of thoughtful regard that she had never before directed at _him_.

One of her perfectly manicured hands pressed down on his collarbone as she stood behind him.

"You look just like your father."

He had flushed with pride and some other confusing emotion he couldn't quite identify.

And then that damned shopkeeper had started to trim the sleeves of his robes and the moment was lost.

The second time had been in third year, when he and Crabbe and Goyle had come across Hogwarts old year books. He had been looking through one volume, trying to find information about Potter's parents that could be manipulated or used to his advantage, when Crabbe had let out a surprised squeak.

"He-he looks just like you!" Crabbe had said, as they all leaned over the photo of an old Hogwarts Dueling competition, in which a fourteen year old Lucius Malfoy stood sneering over a fallen, boil-covered opponent.

From that point on, he decided to observe. It wasn't hard to learn the mechanics of walking at just the right pace, or tilting his head at precisely the right angle. The facial expressions were harder. He'd had to practice those nightly. And if certain expensive feature altering creams and potions had been used, it was of no great matter. It wasn't as if his allowance was lacking.

But it was all worth it, because this morning Lucius Malfoy had been taken to Azkaban prison, his titles stripped from him, and his claim to Malfoy Manor extinguished. Today Draco's seal had been pressed to the deeds that were his birthright. Today the wards around the Manor had been fitted to respond to _his_ hand, and his pass, when he went with his mother to visit the despondent prisoner of Azkaban for the first and last time, read "Master Malfoy" in place of his name.

And when Narcissa Malfoy had turned from the ugly sight of her husband in chains and crawling on the floor of his cell, it was _his_ chest she pressed her hot, tear-stained cheek into.

He remembered stroking the long blonde hair with reverence, amazed at the silky softness of the strands that he had not been permitted to touch since he was three. He was so much taller then her now. Her head fit right under his chin.

"It's all right," he had said to her. "I'll take care of you."

And she had smiled a wan little smile, and looked at him.

"You're just like your father," she had sighed as she leaned on him.

When they returned to the Manor, Draco had put her on the couch in her outer chambers, the ones that were no longer restricted to him by the wards, and pushed a glass of something alcoholic into her hands.

She had drunk it gratefully, with a vulnerability she had never allowed him to see before. He had watched every swallow intently.

When the dizziness began, he had laid her down against the cushions and left the room, promising to bring a restorative potion and a cool cloth. By then, she was too relaxed to wonder why he did not just call a house elf to their side.

And now he stands in front of the mirror one last time, adjusting the jewel cravat at his throat and trying an imperious sneer.

_Perfect._

On the way out the door he grabs a cane from off of his bed, fingering the silver snakes head and smiling as the fangs bit into his thumb, responding to his hold, marking him in a final show of acceptance.

Tonight, he becomes a Malfoy. The real Malfoy.

The _only_ Malfoy.

Fin.


End file.
